I have this really old memory of spending time in a garden with very little adults around.
I remember being asked to pick out a flower that I loved. I searched for quite a while, studying every petal and its soft details until I landed on a yellow poppy.
I go back to this memory often. The joy I felt when I found the flower. The way the pastel felt in my hand as I drew it. The pride that surged me as I slowly came out of my flow state.
And the sweetness that surrounded me.
It was the first time I learned that nature had a spirit of its own. And without understanding how, I knew I was a part of it.
Bri, Olive and I met our two close friends in Anza-Borrego and drove around the park in search of flowers. The sand was too hot on Olive’s paws, so I often found her hiding underneath a shady part or in Bri’s arms. We missed the super, super bloom by a couple of weeks and were greeted only by yellow flowers, but that was more than enough. It’s mind boggling to see such a precious, delicate part of nature surviving under such harsh weather conditions. Flowers growing in sand. Resiliency at it’s finest.
As we walked through the flowers, we quickly began to notice the caterpillars that lined the way. Big, fat, juicy creatures.
Living amongst transitions.
The Ocotillo plant soared high and felt like something straight out of a Dr. Suess book. It reminded me how alive the desert really is and if mirages were a real thing or perhaps glimpses of life flickering through an otherwise desolate place.